All the President's Elves
by Decadent Meerkat
Summary: Holes in reality are afflicting Middle-earth. Strange beings are cropping up, and some think this can be used for their advantage. Features Richard Nixon in Middle-earth. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Suebusters**

The leaf crumbled in her hand. It was a melancholy sight, as each of the brown leafy fragments, individual members of a royal and ancient family of foliage, tawny participants in a genre encompassing all such relics of vegetation, were forever severed from their brethren, isolated, and thrust away to a grave of inevitable decay. Death it was, on a petite scale, but a death that carried with it the future promise of rebirth. The texture of the leaf was dry, parched as if by a thousand year drought, and as wrinkled as the hide of a pox-ridden old man. An imaginative soul might have conceived of the sparse brown surface as providing the parchment to the quill of the leaf's wiry stem. Irrigetta-formerly-Susan sighed. During the two-hour wait for her Elven Prince there was nought to do but twist her platinum ringlets and crunch the dying leaves of Mirkwood Forest. Such monotony, following, as it did, ecstasy, was profoundly hostile to her sense of rightness.

Irrigetta-nee-Susan's transportation to Middle-earth had been swift and efficient. Time itself froze and frayed as the radiant portal manifested before her, conveying her from the comforts of her mundane home to the mystic world of fantasy. Mirkwood Forest was not quite as she had expected, being gloomier, messier, and more tangled than anticipated. The trees, autumnally dour and wild, were widely spaced, but the undergrowth was everywhere. Helping herself to some berries, she reflected that it was altogether different from the park where she had once walked her dog. The forest was silent, and no birds sang in the branches above. Nevertheless, someone was expecting her. There, neatly folded upon a tree stump, lay luscious velvet garments. She had gingerly picked them up, wondering who would have left such things in such a place. Elves, she thought, it had to be Elves. There was something enchantingly quaint about the garb, as though it were rather too good to be true, but much to her surprise it proved a snug fit. The fabric was to die for: the green and purple truly brought out the deep indigo of her eyes, a fact confirmed by her pocket mirror. The mirror itself, a polished little item if not quite an heirloom, had been a present on her seventeenth birthday. Irrigetta-not-Susan carried it with her wherever she went. It was so important, after all, to ensure that one was presentable, especially when one was about to meet the Heir to the Woodland Realm. Ah, Legolas, she thought, we will be together always. While she had never met the Elf, she knew instinctively that there was destiny at work here: why else had she been whisked away?

There was a rumble in the distance. Irrigetta Susansbane looked upwards: it was mid-afternoon and the sky, clearly visible through the canopy of leaves, was bright blue. It followed that the strange noise could not have been the thunder of an approaching storm, which was a relief, for she did not wish to get her new clothes wet. But there it was again. Louder this time. Irrigetta UnSusan knitted her eyebrows. There was something out there. It was certainly not spiders, again, a fact for which she was thankful. Spiders, even ones of normal size, were decidedly icky creatures, but they did not make this sort of racket. Indeed, the thing sounded vaguely like machinery: machinery that was coming closer. Could it be the work of the Dark Lord? Surely not: Orcs would never dare venture into the Woodland Realm with Legolas and his bands of Elven archers maintaining constant vigilance.

Whatever it the thing was, it was crashing and crushing towards her through the undergrowth. Then she saw it. Irrigetta-not-Susan gasped. Such things did not exist in Middle-earth: how could it have come here, where such a monstrosity had no business? It was large, though not so large as to be unable to squeeze its way through the trees, dull and metallic, and diabolically loud. The great tread ate its way through the vegetation. It was a thing from her world. It was a tank.

The metallic beast shuddered to a halt a few yards from where Irrigetta-once-Susan stood. She waited, tense, unable to flee. Then the hatch opened and a figure appeared. It was a man, she could see that. Yes, certainly a man, not an Orc, or even an Elf, but he was old … and strange. There was something of an austere 1930s schoolteacher about him, with his brown waistcoat and tie, and coat sleeves patched with soft leather at the elbows. His hair was grey and thinning, and his face was clean-shaven. 'Respectable' is how Irrigetta-was-not-Susan's grandmother would have termed his appearance: respectable and unassuming. Between his teeth he clenched a tobacco pipe with vice-like determination. Irrigetta-never-Susan did not recognise him, as he looked down at her from atop the tank.

"Go away," she shouted. "You don't belong here.

The man removed his pipe. A smile crossed his craggy features. "My dear," he said, in a crisp, genteel accent that would not have been out of place at the BBC, "I would say much the same about you. This is not your world. I would advise you to return."

Irrigetta-perhaps-Susan snorted. "This is my world now. I am here to marry Legolas and live happily ever after. And there are no tanks in Middle-earth."

He nodded. "That is true. I regret using this infernal device of Saruman, but it was the only way to find you in time. I shall write it out immediately when I return. But you, young lady, had better go back to wherever you came from."

"You go back," pouted Irrigetta-perhaps-not-Susan. Then it struck her. "Write it out? Who are you?"

The man laughed. "You may call me Ronald."

"Ronald? As in McDonald's?"

"No, as in John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. I am the creator of this Universe, and you, sorry to say, have no part in it. Neither do I, to tell you the truth, so we had both best be going before things start to happen."

She was about to protest again when there was a sharp twanging noise to her left, like the plucking of a violin string. The sound briefly hung in the air, then suddenly something punched into her gut, knocking the wind out of her. She tried to cry out in shock and pain, but she had lost her breath. There was a vicious stabbing sensation in the vicinity of her stomach. Irrigetta-no-more-Susan looked down. She had been hit by an arrow. She could hardly believe it, yet there it was, grotesquely sticking out. There was blood. She had been … shot.

Tolkien cursed. "Legolas," he called out, "How many times have I told you that you do not have to kill them?"

Irrigetta-forget-Susan slumped to her knees. The pain, the pain. Legolas…

Then, though her agony, she saw a tall, slender figure striding towards her through the vegetation. Relentless and stern, he carried a bow. And a sword… Legolas?

"Is that you, Legolas?" she gasped

"Yes," said the Elf. Then the sword came down, and sliced off Irrigetta-faux-Susan's head.

From atop the tank, Tolkien groaned. "Legolas," he said, shaking his head, "we have been over this. Killing her is completely unnecessary. She can be written back to where she belongs."

Legolas turned to look at Tolkien. His grey eyes were cold. "She was a manifestation of evil, Professor, and must be purged from this world lest more evil things break through. And have you not also told me that on dying, such beings are returned whence they came? So she is not truly dead."

Tolkien drew on his pipe. He was uncomfortable. "Yes, Legolas, that is correct. But this young lady could have been written out. There was no need for bloodshed…"

Just for a moment, a hint of a grim smile crossed the Elf's face. "Written out like Sauron, perhaps, Professor?"

Susan awoke from her daydream with a start. A cold draft was coming into the room. Closing her recently purchased copy of _The Lord of the Rings_, she got off her bed and went to shut the window.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: A Revelation**

The two wizards sat ensconced in one of Orthanc's upper rooms. They made quite a pair, these two esoteric bearded figures: one garbed in grey, the other in purest white. The room itself was both cluttered and comfortable; one would have to squeeze past multiple bookshelves to get the eastern stain-glass window. From the window there was a somewhat obstructed view of the wilderness of Fangorn Forest.

"Saruman," said Gandalf, thumping the polished oaken table for emphasis, in doing so rattling a fragile Numenorean vase, "I tell you that we are still facing grave peril. The holes in reality that are allowing these mysterious invaders into our world are endangering the very existence of Arda."

Saruman sat back thoughtfully in his fine leather armchair. Gandalf the Grey always had been prone to unwarranted hysterics. It was a reflection, Saruman believed, of the other wizard's well-known addiction to pipeweed. But the Grey Wizard was useful, no doubt about that.

"Have we not summoned the Professor himself?" Saruman asked, injecting a tone of bored reasonableness into his voice. "And has he not been chasing down and eliminating the intruders?"

"It is not enough, Saruman. And to be honest, I am no longer sure how long we can keep the Professor in our world. I am also beginning to suspect that even our act of summoning him has only served to widen the holes."

Which, Saruman silently noted, had been entirely the point. "They say, Gandalf, that it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Brandy?"

"No thank you."

"Very well. I suggest that in the circumstances a new approach may be beneficial."

Gandalf lifted his eyebrows. "Such as?"

Saruman smiled. "Since we now have holes allowing intrusion into Arda, would it not make sense for us to summon a powerful leader of war who may be able to turn the tide against Sauron?"

The Grey Wizard shook his head furiously. "No, Saruman. The risk would be too great. And you know as well as I that our order is forbidden from directly interfering with The One's creation in such a manner."

"We have already summoned the Professor."

"To close the holes, Saruman, not to further abuse them!"

"My dear fellow, since we are no closer to closing the holes, I see nothing wrong with taking advantage of them."

"Saruman, I tell you, absolutely not. And I can tell you right now that both Elrond and Galadriel will agree."

Saruman flinched at the mention of Galadriel's name. She had never liked him, and always played favourites. Still, since Gandalf appeared to be hiding behind the skirts of power, it was perhaps time to try another path.

"If Elrond and Galadriel will not approve, let me assure you that Sauron will. And should Mordor learn how to harness the power of summoning, his victory will be assured."

"Victory over Sauron cannot be achieved by force of arms."

So what are you hinting at, Gandalf? Saruman pondered. Did he have something else up his sleeves to combat Mordor?

"That is not quite what I meant, my old friend. The point is that we, and we alone, have the ability to summon a being from beyond the Walls of Arda. Were we to side with Sauron, we would have him at our mercy. We could then steer Mordor towards our goals, and bring about a new order of logic and learning."

"Saruman, I hope that you are not suggesting…"

"Yes, Gandalf, I am suggesting. It would be wise."

"It would be folly!" Gandalf reached for his staff. Too late. Saruman already had his in hand.

"A pity, Gandalf. We could have achieved so much together. Still, you will see reason after I have summoned my mighty leader of war."

"I was led up many stairs, to the very pinnacle of Orthanc," Gandalf continued, relaying his tale as Elrond frowned. "And there I was left. To sit there, and watch as Saruman gathered the might of Isengard."

"And then you escaped with the aid of Gwaihir the Eagle?" said Elrond. "Has Saruman yet performed his summoning?"

"He had not yet done so by the time I escaped," replied Gandalf. "But he clearly means to do so, and soon."

The Lord of Rivendell groaned. "Gandalf," he said,"Saruman must be stopped. If what you say is true, then Saruman may have the ability to rival Sauron himself. And if he should also find the One Ring…"

"Yes, then Middle-earth is doomed. We are in a more perilous situation than ever."

"Gandalf," said Elrond, "We cannot stop Saruman from performing the spell. We have only one choice. We must pre-empt this traitor and perform the spell ourselves here in Rivendell."

Gandalf gritted his teeth. "Elrond, it is risky, and may well make the holes in reality worse. And as I told Saruman, performing such a summoning flies in the face of my duty."

"I understand, Gandalf, I really do. But if we do not summon this great war-leader, Saruman will. There is no third option, as we lack the ability to close these holes. Furthermore, we are not doing this to augment our own ambitions, but rather to limit the danger of Sauron and Saruman."

Gandalf nodded. "Yes, Elrond, that is true. Very well, I shall perform the spell tonight, here in Rivendell. I can only hope that we do not become tempted to engage in further acts of sorcery along these lines. Reality has been stretched so thin that eventually further commerce with beings from beyond Arda may well destroy creation as we know it."

"Does Saruman know this?"

"He seemed to be focussing on one war leader in particular, rather than many. For all his folly, he does not wish to destroy the world."

A grim smile passed over Elrond's ageless features. "We find ourselves in perilous times if the most than can be said for our enemies is that they do not wish to wreck creation, but merely wish to enslave it in order to do as they like with it."

"Indeed," said Gandalf gloomily. "Indeed".


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: The Oval Office**

It was 2 a.m. and the desk was a disaster zone. Reports from those useless bastards at the Pentagon competed with newspapers and empty glasses for mastery over the table-top. The newspapers were full of their usual crap about the War, and how the South Vietnamese were getting their asses kicked, though right now he was more interested in the coverage of the goings-on in the Senate. Preening Democratic assholes were sticking the knife in and twisting, especially with the mid-terms coming up this year. He felt alone and hunted.

The framed picture of Pat smiled back from behind a coffee mug. He could not bring himself to smile back. It had been a long day – unshaven and sweating, he knew he looked a mess, but there was still so much to do before packing it in for the night. Loosening his tie – why did it feel like a goddamned noose – he groped for the rum bottle. Right now he needed its solace. His hand shaking, he poured himself another drink.

"Screw you all," he muttered to the empty room, toasting no-one in particular. "Traitors, traitors everywhere, I need a goddamn drink." Perhaps he should ring the press corps and give those liberal dope-smoking bastards a piece of his mind. It wasn't as if he had anything to lose. They were circling him like vultures. Hell, everyone was. Even the office light-bulb was giving him a headache.

Still clutching his drink, he eased himself off the chair and staggered over to the portrait by the window. "Hey, Abe," he said to the tall austere gentleman with the dark, chin-hugging beard. "You don't know how goddamned lucky you were." The man in the picture made no sign that he had heard. "Hey, Abe, listen up. I'm going to call out the National Guard and surround the capitol building and the White House with troops. Nobody gets in, nobody gets out. What d'ya say? Won't those assholes at the _Washington Post_ squeal about that?" He laughed, and took another gulp of liquor. The alcohol burned all the way down, but it was just what he needed. He snorted. "Yeah, you're right, Abe. The Chiefs of Staff are probably in on it too. Can't trust anyone these days, can't trust anyone."

Yeah, it had been one betrayal after another. What the hell had he done to deserve this? He'd just been trying to preserve the nation that he'd always known. Now it was being torn to pieces by a bunch of long-haired anarchists and smart-ass journalists who had crapped all over the country that previous generations had built up. Less than two short years ago, he'd been able to stem the tide, and send the dirty hippies back to where they belonged. Now his own party were throwing him to the wolves because they lacked the gumption to stand up against the Reds and their pals. Just thinking about it now was enough to bring tears to his bloodshot eyes.

"I haven't got anyone, Abe. Damn it, Abe, tell me what to do!"

"Greetings, oh great leader."

He jumped. Behind him stood three, no four, figures. All were impossibly tall, and were wearing what looked to be some weird Renaissance Faire get-up, complete with chain-mail armour. Their long dark hair streamed out beneath their helmets, and their grey eyes glittered.

"What the …" he started. "What the …" He dropped his glass. How the hell had these bastards got in here? Security was going to have to answer for this. This wasn't April Fool's.

"All right," he snapped. "You goddamn hippie freaks are in for it now. Think you're so smart, huh? Think that breaking into the office of the goddamn President of the United States is a bit of a laugh? Well, let me tell you that you bastards are going to be seeing nothing but the inside of a jail cell for a good long time." So would the bungling assholes at Security. These guys looked like harmless weirdos, trying to make a point about the War or something, but suppose this had been something more sinister? Suppose these bastards had been agents of the Kremlin, here to kidnap him or something? What was this country coming to when the leader of the Free World had to suffer his office being broken into?

The weirdos exchanged glances and muttered amongst themselves in a language that he couldn't quite catch. Foreigners? That made things worse. Much worse. He edged his way back towards his desk. He could press the emergency alarm button, and within seconds armed personnel would have these cretins surrounded. Or would they? If Security had been lax enough to let these guys break in, who knew who else was in on this thing? Still, it was the only option he had. It was then that he noticed that the weirdos were also carrying swords. Not plastic ones by the looks of it, but actual honest-to-God steel, with the meat and edge to take someone's limb off. So the bastards were foreign and carrying weapons. Well done, Security, this was a rating ten on the scale of almighty fuck-ups. He took a closer look at their faces: weirdly otherworldly and handsome, they proved impossible to link to a particular ethnicity. One thing for certain though was that they were too pale and European-looking to be Asian or Middle-Eastern types. Which meant Russians or some other benighted assholes from the Warsaw Pact. Oh shit, he thought, as the pieces of the puzzle slotted together, the Kremlin is trying to assassinate me. Brezhnev and his buddies are going to start World War III. Oh shit, oh shit. Sweating like a pig, he made a run for the desk. He had to get to the button before these Red bastards went crazy.

"Help," he screamed, groping through the mass of papers and glasses. "The Russians have got me. Damn it, the Russians have got me! Is anyone there? Any-"

He felt a sudden blow to the back of his head, and then there was nothing.

…

He woke with the Sun in his eyes and a godawful headache. He had been sleeping on a patterned couch. There was a light breeze coming in from an open window, carrying with it a sweet aroma of Spring.

He sat up and groaned. "What the hell was I drinking last night," he muttered, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin. He was still in his clothes from the previous evening, and probably stank like a sewer. But as he recalled the events that had led him to this place, his odour became the least of his concerns. Where the hell was he? He looked around the room. This clearly wasn't a KGB holding cell, unless, he reflected, the KGB had suddenly started cavorting with the Pre-Raphaelites. Elegant crystal vases sat atop hand-carved tables, and all around him were shelves full of scrolls – vellum, not paper – and delicate ornaments. Gorgeous tapestries featuring some medieval battle – was that a dragon? – hung from the walls. Quite clearly, he thought, these guys were just garden-variety hippies. They weren't the Russians after all. The sense of relief he got from the aversion of a Third World War was, however, short-lived. Every man and his dog in the US military and Secret Service would be out there looking for him, armed to the teeth. This would be the hostage drama of the fucking century, though he rather doubted that the hippies were going to be pointing guns at him when they made their demands.

"Stupid hippies don't even know what to do with a fucking hostage!" he muttered, only hoping that when the military got here they didn't do anything rash. This had the potential to be a public relations disaster for the United States Government, and heads were going to roll over this. Hell, he'd reattach the heads just so he could cut them off again.

He got to his feet, and stumbled over to the window. Outside there were gardens full of flowers, and little streamlets, shining in the late morning Sun. Some people may have found it beautiful, but he did not.

"A fat lot this peace and love will do against the Kremlin," he muttered.


End file.
